i've had a hell of a time writing lately, by which i mean to say i haven't been writing. what's frustrating is that this isnt a bout of my typical "meh, i'll type something up later" syndrome. it's the "i have shit ton of things to say, but everytime i open up my word processer i blink at the screen three times before trawling through twitter again."
which is to say, i have been reading. a lot. and not just my daily diet of Washington Post articles, Slate features, and various assortments of Twitter and Tumblr feeds. real reading, like i used to do back when i was 8 years old and books were my closest friends and primary source of entertainment. i've gobbled down Lewis Carrol, Joan Didion, Edwidge Danticat, Azar Nafisi, Truman Capote, and now Mark Twain with a vigor unseen in any other aspect of my life right now.
in some ways, it's been my way of escaping what has already been a difficult year. that caveat aside, i must admit that it's been good to be that girl again. i've been underlining passages in books and writing them down again in one of my myriad unused notebooks. though i've never forgotten what enamors me to literature, i haven't committed myself to so much reading time in a while, and i regret that i've waited for so long. topical articles may inform you of the happenings of the day -- from the beautifully mundane to the large and incomprehensible. literature, however, enhances your ability to imagine that world more fully, to draw those myriad experiences near to you. it's not information you seek in art, but understanding.
hopefully my words will come back to me soon. until then, i'm quite happy to lean on the voices of giants.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
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